


Exit Strategies

by wndrw8



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Control Issues, F/F, did i mention weird?, weird kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wndrw8/pseuds/wndrw8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My dear,” she croons. There are no kisses, no love bites, no nicknames or whispers of love. Joan does not do these things. She never will. But by touching someone’s body, you can teach them control. You can teach them reverence and respect and conviction. “Are you going to trust me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> post 2x06  
> I'm new to this fandom. Hi?

Vera is beautiful in a plain way.

There’s no denying the fact. Something about her lips, the roundness, and the softness in her eyes… the way they betray her thoughts. Joan has always been drawn to people who expose themselves through their facial expressions. 

It both fascinates and irritates her. 

Sometimes she wants to shake Vera into place. A prison is no place for emotions. You don’t get to wear your heart on your sleeve. Doesn’t she know better? Joan’s thoughts, once solely focused on the prison, on revenge and things of importance, now sway. 

Her father’s voice echoes in her ear. 

Joan, you must always know your time to exit. 

But…

She has never been one to walk away from a challenge.

+++

It’s clear when visiting Vera at home that the mother runs the household. This bothers Joan. A household should be run by the person in charge. The income earner. The one that cooks, cleans, contributes the most. Vera should be in charge but she is weak. 

Letting her mother say those things… letting her mother cry so helplessly… Women who know how to command recognize other women who know how to command. Joan immediately realizes that she and Rita are playing the same game on the same field. 

But Joan isn’t concerned. 

“Mum,” Vera says. Precious and rottenly docile. Everything Joan hates in the world but at the same time everything she wants. “That’s enough for now, don’t you think?”

She will make Vera need her, only her, and this old specimen, this useless mother, will dissolve as quickly as dust. 

+++

Vera isn’t a lush, but she isn’t a lightweight, either. It takes more than two glasses to get her to open up. White wine creases her lips as they sit, chair by chair, in Joan’s office. The night crew is skeleton. The halls are quiet. Most of the prisoners have long since gone to sleep. 

Always know your time to exit. 

For the first occasion in months, Joan has allowed herself two glasses of wine. She prefers Shiraz but this Pinot is what Vera brought—the white. So rebellious. Maybe there is some toughness in her after all, just hidden deep down. 

“He was a bit… inept,” Vera admits about Fletcher, and her cheeks heat as the confession slips out.

Joan stares.

Those lips. What she would not give to know how they taste, how it feels to bite down on them…

“Governor?”

“My dear,” Joan says, and turns her gaze back to the woman’s eyes. “Matthew Fletcher doesn’t deserve any more of your time. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course. You’re right. Of course.” Vera’s eyelashes flutter. Her legs cross, forcing the uniform skirt up her thighs. A button on her shirt has undone, leaving the faintest hint of skin beneath the white. Smooth and toned. She is all bottled up, held together by string. Begging to be unwrapped. 

“It’s late. Do I need to drive you home?”

Vera’s eyes flicker. She loves so much to be cared about. It’s sickening, really. How much she needs. How much she wants. It’s alluring. It’s ruining. “I think I can manage,” Vera says finally. “But thank you for offering.”

The deputy stands, brushes her skirt flat. She looks down and lets out a small breath upon seeing her top button undone, then quickly moves to fix it. Joan moves forward, halting the motion of her hands. Too close and she can smell Vera’s perfume. The faint tint of powder makeup on her cheeks. 

“Gov—”

Joan buttons the shirt and her fingers linger. Electricity churns her stomach, wet hot heat burning her insides. They stare at one another and after a moment, she reaches up to cup Vera’s face in her palm. Lets her fingers splay across the younger woman’s jawline. She is not wearing her gloves.

No, there are some things Joan believes are meant to be felt by the flesh. Gardening, the cultivation of life amongst seedlings and sprouting flowers is one. Touching the tender skin of her deputy’s cheek is the other.

+++

The after work visits continue. 

They drink wine and discuss Will’s tendency for self-destruction. Linda’s drinking habits. Fletcher’s oafishness. They talk policy. Vera surprises her with a level headed approach to both practical and political matters. She is extremely smart and when she’s not trembling in her boots, the younger woman is also very eloquent. 

Joan leaves her each time with a different touch—the neck, waist, the small of her back, the side of her ribcage, so close to her chest she can feel the swell of Vera’s breast. One night she goes as far as to slip her hand around the firmness of her deputy’s left thigh, squeezing the tense muscle and feeling the heat of her. 

“Miss Ferguson?”

“Yes, Vera?”

Vera shifts. A flush taints her skin. “What are we… what are we doing here?”

“We are simply enjoying one another’s company, my dear.”

The room falls into silence. For a moment, Joan fears rejection, but it passes just as quickly. Vera stares up into her eyes, enamored. She looks a touch excited. Pleased to be noticed. To be talked to like an equal, even though they are not. 

“Is there something else, Vera?”

Vera bats her eyelashes. Bites her lip. She is not playing coy. Vera wouldn’t know how to play coy if she tried. She is just innocent and naïve but this will change. Joan will make sure of it. “I just wanted to thank you for… this. It’s been so nice to have someone to talk to here.”

Joan smiles inwardly. She will rip into this woman. 

She will mold her.

She will make her better.

+++

After another month, Joan gets to the point where she is able to undress Vera. The starched uniform is peeled away. Gloveless, she slides the younger woman’s bra straps down her shoulders and watches as her nipples harden upon hitting the cold air. They take more wine. More wine than Joan is comfortable with. 

Always know your time to exit. 

“Bend over the desk,” Joan commands. 

Vera fidgets. Her hair is down today, curled impeccably. Joan likes the bun, the neatness of it, but there is something deliciously vulnerable about Vera’s long hair draping over her shoulders. “Excuse me?”

“Come,” Joan commands, and motions for her to draw closer.

Vera does, albeit hesitantly. A shiver trembles her nude body. She is so beautiful in the light. “What are you going to do?”

Joan places one hand on Vera’s shoulder, runs the other up and down her hip. Soothing. Calming the soft tremors. Then, slowly, Joan bends her deputy over the desk. The younger woman’s skin pebbles from the cold wood and glass. She lets loose a sharp exhalation and turns her head slightly, her bottom exposed, thighs clenched together with her breasts dangling mere inches above the glass. “Joan…”

“My dear,” she croons. There are no kisses, no love bites, no nicknames or whispers of love. Joan does not do these things. She never will. But by touching someone’s body, you can teach them control. You can teach them reverence and respect and conviction. “Are you going to trust me?”

Vera hesitates. Shadows flit across her face, her breasts rising and falling in time with her uneven breaths. She pinches her lips. Swallows. Finally she cranes her neck so their gazes meet, bending low so her chest presses to the desk. “Yes, Governor,” she says. 

She relaxes and a moment later, Joan slips two fingers inside her. 

+++

Joan works her over, hard. Brings her to the edge of oblivion and then stops, smiling as the younger woman begs for release, her face pinked and sweat brimming around her hairline. She struggles against the desk as Joan works in and out of her, relentless. Stops every time as she’s right on the brink. 

“Please,” Vera begs. “Just…”

“Patience.”

“Joan-”

“You will address me by my correct title.”

Vera bites her lip after a particularly hard thrust and the desk shakes. Neck craned to face Joan, her eyes roll back. Eyelids flutter shut. “Governor,” she says. Her voice is calm and composed even though she pants, sweats. She swallows once and when she opens her eyes again, there is a calmness there. A security. “No more playing games.”

Liquid pools between Joan’s thighs. This is something new. Something she hasn’t felt since…

She rolls Vera’s clit between her fingers, for once unbothered by the stickiness, the heat, the messiness of it all. And after Vera’s found her release, crying out softly as she’s been told, Joan goes against all her own rules and finds oblivion with Vera’s mouth on her center, those neatly curled locks spilling down over her thighs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to reiterate: follows up to 2x06 and UA after that

Rita dies. 

Weeks pass and the after work sessions grow longer, complicated. 

Joan starts thinking about Vera more and more. In the shower, during fencing lessons, the drive to the prison. Rain falls over the cracked pavement lot as she stalks forward, heels clicking, barely even noticing she’s wet until she gets inside. 

Nothing good ever comes from emotions. 

Because when you care for someone like this, there is no exit strategy. 

+++

Staff meetings prove especially difficult. Joan has trouble focusing. Her skin burns whenever Vera is around. She’s inundated by the smell of the younger woman’s perfume, the wisp of brown eyeliner beneath her lashes and the quiet shade of pink on her lips. 

Already Vera’s demeanor has changed. She holds her head up higher now. She walks with purpose. When she struts down the hallway, the inmates move away. The other officers no longer request off or act inappropriately in her presence. 

The staff meetings are no exception.

“You can’t expect us to be okay with these budget cuts. You think we—”

“Mister Fletcher,” Vera warns. “You will not speak out of turn.”

The room goes silent. The other officers look down at the table or to the side and it makes Joan’s insides run hot. She imagines ripping the clothes from her deputy’s body. Forcing her hands above her head, making Vera surrender to her. Only her. 

Mine, mine, mine. 

It was like this with Jianna, she realizes.

It’s happening again.

+++

An inmate attacks Joan in the hallway later that day. Swings a shiv at her side and then tries to tackle her. The girl’s bones are like twigs, skin loose and sagging. She smells like cigarettes. It is an inconvenience Joan does not feel like dealing with.

With no time to put on gloves, she takes the girl by her neck and slams her against the wall. 

“Mr. Jackson,” Joan says after the girl has quieted, “please slot the prisoner.”

Will moves in and as the young prisoner is led away, Joan looks down at her hands. Feels the grease, the stink. A sinking feeling grips her gut and she rushes immediately to the staff bathroom to wash up. She puts the water on as hot as it will go and relishes as it burns her palms. Scrubs. 

“Governor?”

Joan looks up. In the mirror, Vera squints back at her. Today the younger woman’s hair is pulled back in a tight bun and in the florescent lighting, shadows crease her face. The bun is too harsh for her. She’s pretending to be something she isn’t and it makes Joan bristle, scrub harder. “Return to your work.”

“Are you ok—”

“Get out.”

Vera’s eyes falter. She looks at the door once, then back to Joan. Bites her lip, then marches forward. She touches Joan’s hands beneath the spray of the water then quickly turns the faucet colder. “That’s too hot,” she says. “Joan, let me.”

She dulls the water and squirts several teaspoons of soap into her palm, starts rubbing. Joan closes her eyes. The rhythmic movement lulls her and she focuses on the pounding sensation in her temple. Ignores the voice telling her to destroy this woman; to wound before she can be wounded. 

“You’re deceptively strong,” Vera says. “If the women didn’t fear you before, they most certainly will now.”

Inside her head, Joan’s heartbeat pounds. 

+++

At the end of the day, Joan unwinds by drinking an entire bottle of Shiraz. Safe in her home, she plays Mozart’s third symphony, lets her hair loose about her shoulders and prepares herself a steaming hot bath. She’s moments away from stepping in when the doorbell rings. 

Feet bare, silk robe tied tight around her body, she pads down the hallway and opens the door to find Vera on the stoop. She has a pea coat drawn around her uniform. Her hair is loose, but messy, not the painstaking curls she likes, but pleasing all the same. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Joan hesitates at the door. She feels the heat pooling between her legs. That sense of white hot lust and rage. “Vera, dear,” she says, “it’s rude to show up to someone’s home uninvited.”

+++

The bathwater is shared. Wet hair curls around their shoulders when they finish and Joan maneuvers Vera back onto her bed. She dislikes the texture damp skin leaves along her sheets, but there is something about her deputy’s flesh when wet—it glows. It begs to be consumed. 

Joan looks up. An idea nags at the base of her skull. Like the pounding in her head, it is something she can’t rid herself of. 

“Put your hands above your head.”

Vera looks up. A wrinkle surfaces around her mouth. But she slowly complies, lifting her arms above her head so her wrists are crossed. Joan reaches into the nightstand at their side and withdraws a pair of handcuffs. 

Vera’s breath hitches. 

Her skin smells like rosemary oil. Joan inhales deeply as she leans forward and secures Vera’s wrists in the handcuffs, positioned so they are looped around a bedpost, holding her still. 

“Do you trust me?”

A slight twitch. Then, “Yes.”

Joan reaches deeper into the drawer. She leans forward and circles one of Vera’s nipples with an index finger, then withdraws a small filleting knife. The blade is slick and reflects the light. When Vera sees it, her breath stills. “Did you have that prisoner to attack me today, Vera?”

Silence.

Joan watches closely. Not for an admission of guilt. Vera is not guilty. But she wants to see fear. She wants to know that she still has power over the woman who is ruining her life. “Tell me the truth. Now.”

“I would never do anything like that.”

“You want me gone.”

“No.”

She presses the knife into Vera’s side. “Are you quite certain of this?”

“Yes!” She whimpers. “You know I would… I would never deliberately undermine you.”

Joan watches. The tension in her deputy’s body is palpable. Muscles like cord stretched tight. A brown birthmark mars the skin just above her pelvis, a blotch that looks like an infinity sign. She is perfect. How could someone be so weak be so beautiful? How could someone so compromised demand so much of her? 

Take control now, her father’s voice says. Rid yourself of any hesitation.

But…

It’s Vera. 

Joan exhales and retracts the knife. 

The room goes silent.

“Take off the handcuffs, Joan.”

Worthless. Her father again. I have told you. 

“Now, Joan.”

Joan unlocks the cuffs. Places them on the nightstand. As slim, toughened fingertips latch onto her shoulder, she finds herself being guided onto her back. The robe is opened and splayed out across the sheets. Vulnerable.

Vera straddles her and looks down with eyes wild and mussed. It looks like she’s been crying. Like she’s furious. She does not look away. “Do you love me?” she asks. 

Joan reaches up and tucks a lock of wet hair behind her ear.


	3. Chapter 3

Joan wakes and dreams, unable to distinguish either. Vera is on top of her, below her, inside her. Rosemary oil mingles with sweat and the cold breeze from an open window. Cars whistle by, honking. Vera’s breathing hard, or maybe it’s she who is breathing hard? Joan can’t tell anymore.

She feels drunk and spent. 

This will not end well. 

She must think, strategize. But then Vera’s curling into her side, her skin warm and soft and her eyes tired like she needs protecting. Like Jianna needed protecting, but this time Joan is stronger. She’s learned now, hasn’t she? Joan looks at Vera and thinks, I will protect you. I will never let a prisoner harm you. I will never let Matthew Fletcher touch you. Never again.

She draws the covers, binding their bodies together and letting the sweat dry on their skins. 

+++

When Joan wakes, the sheets on Vera’s side of the bed have been straightened and tucked into the corners of the mattress. Light spills in across the wood floor, hanging in a cloud over the dresser. 

“Are you feeling better?”

Vera enters the room, still buttoning her deputy’s shirt as she goes to the dresser, her back to Joan. The shirt has been recently washed and ironed. The material over the shoulders creases in the corners, pointed and overstarched. “You used my washer?”

“I didn’t have time to go home.”

Joan pushes the covers off her legs. She pulls her robe on then stands, sidling in behind Vera. She slips her hand beneath the curtain of hair so she can feel the younger woman’s spine. It is miniscule under her palm. Her hand wanders to the shoulder, traipses down Vera’s arm. “Stay here today.”

“Can’t,” Vera says. She watches Joan in the mirror, the nervous twitch in her mouth ever present. “One of us has to be there… I informed the staff you wouldn’t be in.” 

Joan goes still. Her grip tightens. 

“I thought you could use a day of rest after what happened.”

“You did, did you?”

“Please don’t be mad. I was only trying to do what’s best for you.”

Slowly, Joan turns Vera in her arms. They stand there, face to face. Vera is so small. So petite. Joan begins unbuttoning Vera’s shirt again. “Stay,” she commands. 

The younger woman fidgets, looks at the door. The first button pops open, then the second. Uncertainty blooms through her features but blurs as Joan fingers the button to her skirt. “I’ll call in late,” she says. The material of her skirt slides down her legs and pools on the floor. “But only an hour, okay? One hour, Joan.”

+++

The prison has the potential tear them apart. 

Like all obstacles, Joan sees it in terms of cause and effect. Divide and conquer. Nothing is going to take Vera from her. Not now after everything they’ve been through. They are close. It isn’t like with Jianna, it’s better. This time she knows what to do, how to handle things. 

“No more nights,” she tells Vera. “We work together from now on. We should be united in our actions.”

Inside her office, the sun angling in across the desk, Vera looks up at her. The tell-tale wrinkle surfaces near her upper lip. Today her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with wisps dangling around her face. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Deputies do not waste their talents working the night shift. Do I make myself clear?”

The wrinkle evens out. With a small smile, Vera leans forward to remove the scheduling roster from the desk. “Yes, Governor.” 

+++

Bea Smith grows to bore her. Francesca Doyle, too. These are little girls with little, conniving ideas and Joan is above them all. She is simply here to correct. She is here to make sure her women serve their sentences, to make sure the drug flow is stemmed. She is here to instill fear. She is here to watch over her deputy. 

With time, the small stressors of the prison fade away. Vera handles much of it now—the prisoners don’t like her but they respect her. They follow her lead. The other officers, too. Joan is left to oversee investigations and negotiate punishments, complete paperwork. 

Her old inclinations, though lessened, linger. 

Like when she catches Jodie Spiteri with drugs.

It would be so easy to break the girl. Joan thinks about all the delicious little things she could do. However, surprisingly, her intent changes when she catches Vera on the cameras talking to Spiteri in the slot. Jodie sobs on the mattress, her head in her hands. Her hair hangs in tangles around her thin wrists. She hasn’t eaten in the three days since she was caught and has refused to see her peer worker.

Through the briny lens, Vera kneels in front of Spiteri, face stern, her hands on the girl’s knees. “Making yourself sick in here isn’t going to shorten your sentence.”

Spiteri turns away. 

“Franky’s been in the slot more times than anyone,” she continues. “Do you think she carries on like this?”

The cell goes quiet. The office, too. Joan leans into the screen, her breath fogging the corners of the glass. 

“Do what you need to do. Nobody is going to feel bad for you, Jodie.”

Spiteri stays stone faced but after a few moments, she reaches for her food. 

Joan leans back, rubs her mouth. And although she wouldn’t mind seeing the pathetic speck of a girl waste away, there is something incredibly stimulating about watching Vera handle the situation. There’s something nurturing about it. Almost… motherly. 

+++

Joan allows Vera to handle more of the prisoner outbursts. Certain incidents… certain rules that are broken… Whereas before she would just find Smith or Doyle and make them pay, Joan gives a blanket punishment to the whole crew and goes home at night to screw her deputy. 

The anger towards her prisoners slowly ebbs. 

When Bea Smith tries to start a prison riot, Joan shuts the situation down within minutes. She slots ten prisoners and removes privileges for twenty others. Then she goes home and polishes her shoes. Cleans the kitchen. Waters the geraniums on the windowsill. She is so rough with Vera that night that the younger woman cries out, time and again, until her legs are coated with moisture and Joan finds bruises from her grip on her wrists. 

In the dark, Joan traces over them in wonder. 

That’s when it hits her. She realizes how weak she’s truly become, how indifferent. 

The truth is; she didn’t play Vera. Vera’s the one that’s played her. 

+++

After that night, Joan ignores Vera for two days straight. Walks past her at work and doesn’t return her calls. Doesn’t visit after her shift. It feels good in some ways, like she is getting her power back. But she isn’t; she isn’t getting her power back, and the images of her deputy won’t stop coming.

Vera in an oversized T-shirt in her bed. 

Vera bent over the desk, back arched in the spray of the shower. 

That’s why, when she arrives at the doorstep, Joan can’t turn her away. 

She pours them tumblers full of vodka. Watches as condensation beads on the coasters. They talk; her words are fumbling and inadequate. Vodka is supposed to help, but Vera is only growing more agitated. Joan doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what to do about anything anymore. 

“Tell me you love me,” Vera says. Her cheeks have grown rosy with drink. 

“I don’t follow orders.”

“I’m not giving you orders! I’m asking.”

Joan struggles. She should walk away. End it all now. 

“You don’t care about me,” Vera says, and now she is crying. “You never did. This was all just a game to you, wasn’t it?”

The tears are messy. They burn her cheeks pink and beautiful. Joan has always been mesmerized by a tear stained face. 

Jianna cried, too, and then they killed her. 

“Stop that,” Joan says. “You’re completely unreasonable when you act like this.”

Vera purses her lips. “I’m upset, Joan. Sometimes people get upset.”

Discomfort unspools in her stomach. Joan stands at the table. Her glass is empty; the bottle is nearing finished. Condensation kisses it like frost. She should walk away. Emotions always end badly, Joan knows this. But things are not the way they were then.

Vera is not Jianna. 

+++

They screw like equals this time. Joan sits with her back against the headboard of the bed, Vera straddling her while her small hands work between them. Sweat pebbles on her bare breasts. There is no sound in the room save for their erratic breathing. 

This time there is no pain, no withholding, no denial. No screams or calls to God. The sun drops away, and after they are done, Vera splays out on the bed with her stomach to the mattress, holding herself up on her forearms to ask again, “Do you love me?”

Joan folds her hands over her stomach. “I do. You know I do.”

The younger woman smiles. She leans forward and presses a hesitant kiss to Joan’s lips. Their first. Vera’s mouth parts slightly and she tastes tart—of Pinot and sparkling water. 

She pulls back and smiles again.

Joan watches her for a moment before turning away. The traffic has quieted. This moment is unique, she thinks. It will never be duplicated. Summer looms close and the night air has a softness to it that was absent when all this started. The sun will bloom orange and pink tomorrow, saturated with spring humidity. 

In the quiet of darkness, the drawer to the nightstand opens. Joan closes her eyes, faintly aware of the sound of Vera fingering the polished metal of the filleting knife, tracing the edges, the metal glinting off the haze of the streetlights outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading


End file.
